Enemy of the State
by draamiones
Summary: Six wealthy individuals are hired by the sitting Vice President Tom Riddle to plan and execute the murder of President Albus Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy, an aimlessly reckless criminal, is assigned leader of the mission and must find a way to successfully accomplish Riddle's orders and take down the American government before it's too late. Dramione, muggle AU.
1. Author's Note - Please Read

Author's Note

(please read!)

Hi everyone! Welcome to my first fic, Enemy of the State. You may know me from Tumblr, where I can be found at 'draamione'. There, I make edits & other aesthetic creations. Included below are a few warnings that I recommend heeding before proceeding with the fic.

First things first, this piece deals with several heavy topics including (but so far not limited to) murder, death, alcohol abuse, drugs, slight sexual situations, and coarse language throughout. I advise that if you are not comfortable with any of those topics, though most will not be discussed in excess, you click out of this fic while you still can.

That being said, this is a fic that takes place in a modern-day America. Meaning all characters, unless explicitly mentioned, are American. Though I know some may want to avoid spoilers, this fic will include the pairings of Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger, Daphne Greengrass x Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson x Harry Potter, and Blaise Zabini x Ginny Weasley. However, various side pairings and such will be included sporadically.

If you have any further questions, feel free to send me an ask or a message on my Tumblr. I will try to get back to you as soon as possible.

Thank you for taking the time to read my first fic! Please review as it really helps me understand public opinion and what I need to improve and work on!

Love,

Kelsey


	2. Money, Power, Glory

**ENEMY OF THE STATE**

_ONE_

MONEY, POWER, GLORY

_Serpensortia. _He toyed with the name, letting it roll over his tongue, feeling its weight. It simmered in his throat as he echoed it back into the receiver. _Serpensortia?_ It was a question this time, long and enunciated, as though the words were foreign. In the silent moments that followed his inquiry, he almost had to ask himself if they actually were.

Draco Malfoy was not a foolish man. A lying, manipulative, emotionally distant—albeit _charming_—man, sure. But he was no fool. That was the prime reason he laughed off Riddle's first request. The man couldn't be serious, could he? He imagined you'd have to be all sorts of crazy to suggest the things Tom Riddle had just suggested.

The speaker crackled lightly in his ear. A low chuckle escaped the receiver, one that could be mistaken for a growl had Draco not known better. "And here I was thinking you'd let me down." A slight pause, then. "I'll be messaging you the details when I hear word from the other recruit." The line was dead and Draco was left annoyed and _thoroughly_ perplexed. Other recruit? Riddle had only mentioned names he was familiar with: Nott, Zabini, Parkinson, and Greengrass, all of who had already accepted. How many useless fucks did it take to murder an old man?

He shifted in the front seat of his car, the tires hugging the curb of a nameless grimy alley, and leaned his head on the steering wheel, sighing. _Oh_, Draco thought, that was another thing, _their target. _The President. Tom had shrugged it off as though he was no more than a commoner. President Dunderfore or Dumblydon, or something obscure like that. Draco didn't care enough about politics or reality to differentiate.

See, that was the thing about Tom Riddle. He was, in essence, the very namesake of an enigma. He was all wealth, sharp teeth, and cryptic words. The latter of which swirled around like horseflies, bouncing off the edges of his skull and pummeling into his brain. Draco knew what was being asked of him, what was required of him. He knew that the day he replaced the living, breathing potential that resided within him with a switchblade and a curious criminal record that was left unattended to. _Fucking enigma, _Draco groaned quietly, palming the wheel of the vehicle roughly before veering off the side of the street and into the woes of lunch hour traffic.

But it was _Tom Riddle._ And what Tom Riddle wanted was what Tom Riddle got. It was either that or a knife to the throat. So, of course, he would say yes. He had to. It was as if the mission was some divine birthright that was thrust upon his shoulders, the making of a cliché hero story that was about to go very, very wrong.

He flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The same pale hair that curled over his forehead, the same slightly crooked nose—courtesy of a particularly nasty punch he'd received from a girl, the reason lost somewhere amongst the memories of his university days—and the relatively recent deep, plum prints that rested beneath his eyes, all stared back at him. It made him look translucent. Or maybe just entirely exhausted.

_Just think_, Tom had said to him, _of the rewards you will receive. The wealth, the acclaim, the girls_—, Tom's voice had curled over that last part as if murder was the ultimate weapon of seduction. Draco had seen enough blood, death, and women to think that, after all, it may as well be.

He shook the thoughts away. He had to accept the mission. _It's for your father, Draco_. Riddle's voice lived like a parasite in his mind. It latched, sucked, and bled him dry until he was nothing. Nothing more than skin, bones, and the pistol strapped to his hip. This is what his father would have wanted.

_Right?_

He pushed the accelerator harder, his Impala grumbling under the task. The car had been his father's too. As had Draco's smile, hair, and proclivity for inadvisable activity. In fact, the only difference between him and his father was Draco's sheer dumb luck in the fact that he was still breathing. But he tucked that morbidity away, compartmentalizing it down far enough so that it would have to wait until his next mental shitshow to rear its ugly head.

All the task encompassed was the death of the President at his hands. It was simple. A bullet to the temple, a slip of poison in his wine, or if he was feeling particularly dramatic, a knife to the back. This wasn't his first mission—his first _killing_, he should say. Yet, for some odd reason, something lodged in his throat at the notion of it. It must be the grandness of it all. Or how very, irrevocably _fucked _he would be if it all went wrong. _Or maybe_, he contemplated as he turned off the main road and onto a beaten trail that coughed up dust with every step forward, it was the fact that the last instance of blood on his hands had been _too_ red, _too_ warm, and spilling _too_ quickly from the hole in the head of that man that he called his father.

* * *

He'd always hated the green velvet couch that sat in the corner of his parlor. It was scratchy and stiff, the kind of place where you can never be _truly_ comfortable. The cushions were a deep chartreuse color that he was positive nobody on the godforsaken planet actually liked. Except for his mother, who'd gifted him the furniture. Therefore, Draco was utterly incapable of explaining why it was the place he chose nightly to nurse the same crystalline glass that dimmed his thoughts and numbed his limbs.

It was somewhat therapeutic, the routine of it all. The waking up, preparing for a day of running from the law and executing brash recklessness before tucking away for the night with a crisp dosage of Ogden's finest. On one hand, he worried that he sometimes got the definitions of therapeutic and pathetic flopped. On the other, Draco was too drunk to care. During the middle of that debate between himself and the ceiling, his phone buzzed suddenly, violently.

"Part of me had begun to think His Highness stuck a blade through your spine for taking so long to accept." A rich, full voice boomed, lacking introduction.

There was quite a lot to say about Theodore Nott. Junior, that is. He was disrespectful and unproductive to society as a whole, as well as filling the shoes of a general asshole, a fact that he recognized and claimed pride over. Yet, instead of flinching at his bluntness, Draco sat up—disoriented and seeing stars—and placed the circular glass somewhere beside his feet.

"Part of me was beginning to think you weren't going to show up to the funeral." He joked, curling his teeth over his lip. "And I _didn't_ reject the offer." Draco finished slowly, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder while he patted around his pockets for an elusive package of cigarettes. It was a habit he didn't need his mother for to know its consequences, a habit that his father—or more accurately, the lack thereof—had caused.

"Fat fucking chance. Now, are we thinking white roses for the memorial service, or red? You know, I've always thought that-"

Draco cut him off swiftly. "Any idea who the sixth member is? Riddle said he wouldn't send any further details until he heard word." He pinched the cigarette between his lips before sparking up, pushing back with a heavy exhale to lay against the back of the couch.

"No clue. Daph said something about it-" Theo snapped his fingers randomly, searching for the words. "All I remember hearing is that she's a freak. Like, a genius, Draco." The pale man thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against the armrest of the chaise. "Afraid to say I haven't had the misfortune of meeting many geniuses in my life." Except he had and she stuck out in his memory like a neon arrow for nothing short of that exact reason. Though, he quickly decided he wasn't going to say a word. In what layer of hell would Tom Riddle contact _Hermione Granger_ for an assassin's plot? Hermione Granger: high profile defense attorney and all-around local do-gooder. In some aspects, the thought made him sick.

"Yeah, well. It takes one to know one. Hence your inability to name any." Draco let Theo continue to ramble. No, there was absolutely no way. He could say what he wanted about Tom Riddle, but the man was not stupid. Any chance of killing the President would be absolutely botched if Hermione Granger—the name itself leaving a bitter taste on his tongue—stood within five hundred feet of it. Besides, last he'd heard, she was some sort of darling to the whole institution. No, there was _no fucking way_.

There was a deep breath and then "So, Dumbledore, huh?" Draco brightened at the name he'd forgotten. It was even farther out there than the ones he had made up. "Serves him right, anyway." Theo continued, laughing without mirth. "It was his little coup that offed my father, wasn't it? Personally, I have no moral objections to sticking a pipe bomb down the throat of the old fucker." It was so like Theo to conveniently ignore the notion that their target was none other than the most safeguarded man in the American government. And the fact that he'd loathed his own father.

Even though Draco had the will to kill bastard as much as Theo did, it was his job as the leader, as Tom had so graciously thrust upon him, to ensure that they didn't do anything so blatantly _conspicuous_. And it was true. Draco _did_ have that deeply rooted motivation to kill Albus Dumbledore. After all, Albus was the very man that ordered the bullet that had been buried in his father's brain. This is what his father would have wanted.

The bullet that killed his father, that fucked up Draco's life so thoroughly that there was nothing left he had except Theo and a steady supply of Ogden's. Even his _mother_ was gone. Not entirely, he had to remind himself, but enough so that he never saw her except on the social pages of the Daily Prophet. He could remember, in fact, the covers of the print not even two days after the funeral. _Narcissa Malfoy Spotted Shopping with Mysterious Wealthy Heiress_. The woman, it turns out had been Lily Evans—or should he say Potter?—a stunning woman, really. And a frequent cheater on her husband, it seemed. Unexpectedly, rage boiled in his throat. This is what his father would have wanted.

"Theo, I gotta go." Draco said abruptly, overtly leaving the other man's question unanswered as he grew restless with sitting, with the conversation, and with the cigarette that was slowly reducing to ash between his fingers. "Aw, is it bedtime for Draco? Don't worry, this chick next to me is starting to wake anyways." There was a faint rustling as Draco rolled his eyes and threw the butt into the ashtray near his elbow. Theo, as deeply in love with Daphne Greengrass he was, unrequited or not, was no doubt sitting on his balcony, alone and higher than a kite. But it had reached that part of the night where he decided to give his best friend the benefit of the doubt before laughing and flinging his phone to the other end of the couch.

Hours later, when he had folded himself into bed, he was met with another blank ceiling. _Is this all there is_? He nearly shouted to the grey paint. Was this all he was meant to be? Is this what his father wanted for him? He could dress himself up all he wanted, don the most luxurious silk, drink the finest liquor, get the prettiest girl, and when all was said and done, what was he? An assassin with too many addictions and a deadly kill shot, apparently. That's all there is and that's all there will ever be. He repeated this like a mantra, over and over until the night turned to morning and he finally began to believe it.

* * *

Blaise Zabini could no longer count the number of mornings he awoke to find Ginny Weasley in his arms without a clue of how she'd gotten there. He knew he should have counted on her presence by now, but every time he opened his eyes to the same ashen hair sprawled across his chest he was as shocked as the time before.

It wasn't something they did often, but it started the same way. Casual drinks in the complex lobby, where he would order a scotch, on the rocks, neat and she, an ungodly amount of vodka lemon spritzers.

And then it got to talking. Work, life, friends, a dead relative, a debate on the platonic-ness of their relationship, whatever the alcohol brought out of them. Sometimes all it took was particularly invested look at how she'd changed since the day he met her; her fiery long locks traded for a pale cut that was cropped just past her shoulders, her muscles toned impeccably from the time she spent on the field, and her amber eyes that were lined in ink that drew him in further and _further. _

Other times it was not so simple. Those nights were full of the repeated _we shouldn't be doing this_ or _this has to be the last time_—though it never was. Those were the nights where he would slap a hundred onto the table and tip his head to the bartender before being shoved roughly into the elevator, her lips and everything else close to follow.

He looked down at the woman who lay against him now, shifting his chest slightly, and was unable to remember which path had dictated their previous night's activities. His movement was enough to cause her to stir, her eyes turning to meet his.

"Fuck." she blurted, reaching out to check her phone, which blared a nasty _9:23 am_ timestamp. "_Fuck._" She made a move to push away from him, pulling the sheets up and around herself.

"It's Saturday, Weasley. Can't your push-ups and team bonding wait for an extra hour?" He grimaced at the cracking of his voice, rough from disuse. Ginny barely looked up from the scrolling of her notifications to give him a halfhearted glare.

"C'mon," he continued. "Let's have breakfast—I'll make that like egg thing you like."

"An _omelet?_"

"An omelet, sure." Part of him knew that he was encroaching on some unexplored territory, that breakfast and omelets weren't a reality for them, but he also didn't really care. He didn't have anything better to do today. How else would he spend his time if he weren't in bed with a girl? Specifically, if said girl was Ginny Weasley.

She shrugged slightly, laying back down. He pulled the white duvet up over her small freckled shoulders and watched her bury the side of face further into the pillows. Blaise leaned over slightly, pressing the edge of his lips over the newly blossomed love-bite that curved on the side of her neck. He smiled at her small giggle in all of its soft sweetness.

Yanking on a discarded black t-shirt and boxers, he wandered to the kitchen, cursing the decision to choose the penthouse with the sky-lighting. It truly was an unnecessary addition when the sun blossomed so brightly, so early. But soon, the sounds and smells of the kitchen were enough to wake him up to the point where he began to welcome the openness of it all. The sprawling luxuriousness of the largest penthouse in Seattle was bound to have its perks.

Blaise watched patiently as the eggs simmered, throwing spinach and tomatoes into the fold before it had a chance to burn. A feat that Ginny would poke fun at no doubt. The potatoes, sitting unattended to in the adjacent pan, popped obtrusively until he shuffled them into silence. The domesticity of it all made him shudder. This wasn't him. This was not Blaise Zabini. He was supposed to be the lover for the night who was gone before the sun rose. And yet, here he was making a fucking omelet for a girl he knew only for her body.

His brief reverie was cut off abruptly with the loud _thump! _of the front door and searing throb in his left hand as he leaned far into the stove. He swore audibly, turning off the heat before walking to find his bedroom barren. Suddenly Ginny, who was wrapped in nothing but his sheets five minutes before, was gone. Leaving nothing in her wake besides an omelet turning cold and a rushed note reading "_Coach couldn't wait, sorry! xx_" in that painstakingly familiar loopy, scrawling handwriting that blurred o's and u's and made it nearly impossible to read. Crumpling it in his hand, he added it to the growing pile in the trash can in his room.

Walking to the far window, he caught her in time to watch as she roamed around the parking lot in search of her car. It didn't take Blaise long to realize that she was standing at the hood of a black Maserati for a suspiciously long amount of time. _His_ Maserati, to be specific. He pulled out his phone and typed, _Touch the car, and I'll fuck you up._

Her reply was instant. _is that a promise?_

He looked to the counter where he kept the basket of car keys, found the silver pair to be missing, and cursed every god known to man.

_Fuck off, Weasley. _This time her only response was peeling out of the parking lot and fading into the distance, leaving behind only the faint smell of burnt rubber and a nostalgic hue of loneliness in the penthouse apartment.

* * *

In Blaise's ever-so-humble opinion, the mission was a welcome distraction. A few months off from his desk job with his only task being the death of a useless old man? He would take that over managing the Gringotts vault numbers any day. Of course, Blaise had enough of a brain to know it wouldn't be that easy, but he knew what he was capable of. And above all, he knew the reward that it would bring.

Tom Riddle wanted the presidency, that much was obvious. And from his sitting status as Vice President, he wasn't far off from it. Blaise wasn't bothered at the prospect of wiping Dumbledore's face from existence; he didn't like him nor his policies, but he did consider himself lucky that he had taken the bipartisan route of adding another party to his ticket. He supposed he didn't care much for any of the other specifics.

With Riddle in charge, Blaise would have power in his hands. He knew that Tom's plans for their rewards would be an abuse of several federal laws, but that mattered little when the reserves that were to be swept clean would be delivered in his name. His name and four—five—others. His mental correction reminded him of something. He stretched further across the black leather couch he'd been glued to for the past several hours, hearing it groan beneath his weight as he fished his cell phone from his pocket. He pressed to return one of the three missed calls from Theodore Nott, who picked up on the fourth ring.

"I'm truly beginning to think everyone is purposely missing my calls." Theo was always the first to speak and never seemed to learn the definition of an introduction.

"You're right on that assumption." Blaise responded, he focused on the bottom corner of his television screen that was telling him to choose another episode, which he ignored and begrudgingly watched the screen turn to black.

"Please," Theo chuckled slowly, "Spare me the compliments."

"Any news?" Blaise continued.

"Of course." A long pause and then, in high-pitched sarcasm, "_Oh please, Theo! Tell me!"_

"I _will_ tell Tom Riddle to fire you." Blaise joined Serpensortia for two reasons. One, and it was horribly predictable, the money. Two, to get his mother back. He didn't have time to fuck around.

Esmeralda Zabini was currently sitting in jail under the charges of federal tax fraud, an accusation that was more false than true. In reality, she had just evaded the taxes altogether, a feat which Blaise had helped her accomplish. Though he had done a remarkably better job at covering his tracks.

But what set him apart from the rest was the fact that he had _nothing_ against Albus Dumbledore. Sure, the man was a mess when it came to politics, but so was all of Washington. Blaise found no blood-curdling _need_ to slit the man's throat, his death was only means to an end. Means that he was more than willing to sacrifice.

"And miss out on my delightful presence every step of the way to the Capitol building? I highly doubt that." When Blaise didn't respond or react in any form, Theo dropped his antics. "Alright, fine. Riddle sent Daph the file of the sixth member. Does a _Hermione Granger_ ring any bells?" He thought for a moment, racking his brain.

"The bushy-haired know-it-all who hung around with Loony—_Luna_, sorry—and that red-headed weasel?" Blaise thought he resembled more of a rain-soaked rat, but he thought it best to keep the conversation light. "Ron." Theo clarified, with which Blaise overrode with the loud clearing of his throat. He desperately attempted to push away the thoughts of the girl who'd laid in his bed just that morning.

"But yeah," the other boy said, "that's her. Quite odd that Riddle would hire somebody so straight-laced though, isn't it?"

He turned the remote over and over in his hand, gathering his thoughts. His eyes were trained on some random focal point in the distance, unsure of what exactly it was that captured his attention. "I don't know about that. I mean, a man like him has to have a reason for everything, don't you think?"

"Ah yes, because compromising the whole fucking plan by adding in a smart aleck with a moral backbone still intact is just so..._wisdomous_ of him." Theo's voice was dripping with cynicism now and Blaise had to muffle his chuckle into his shoulder.

"Careful, Nott." He warned tauntingly. "Your girlfriend could be wiretapping us as we speak. And some part of me wants to believe you don't want this getting back to the boss before we've even begun."

Theo grunted like a child in response, spewing "Does it look like I give a flying fuck about anything relative to this mission? Honestly, Riddle can suck my-" and something else mildly incomprehensible but _very_ vulgar.

"Granger, huh?" Blaise interrupted, hunching over to grab the glass of scotch off the coffee table, frowning at the ring of condensation that had begun to form on the glass. "Wait 'til Malfoy gets a load of that. It'll honestly shock me if he doesn't put the bullet through his _own_ head."

"Who knows," Theo contradicted, his tongue _tsk_ing slightly. "Maybe we'll get a cinematic love-story out of it." Blaise groaned at the very thought. "If that's the case, put the bullet through _my_ head."

He was entirely unsure, however, of how exactly this group was determined to get anything accomplished. Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, and himself were already quite a volatile bunch of broken things. If he was being entirely honest, he didn't think the five of them were going to get anywhere far. But factor in Hermione Granger, who was notorious for being nothing short of perfect, it was a downright suicide mission.

"Anyways," Blaise proceeded. "I was thinking of flying out to you guys this Saturday, is Malfoy on board with it all?" He knew that they planned to source the initial stage of the mission out of New York City, partially for its or proximity to the capital and partially for the fact that it was where Draco, Daphne, and Theo already resided.

"Yeah," Theo commented, his tone dropping soberly. "He sounded a bit out of it when I talked to him last night, though. Lucius' death fucked him up, Zabini." He sighed. The thing was, Blaise didn't particularly like Draco Malfoy. He was overly complicated in the way that made him tiresome to deal with and he had a superiority complex that put Blaise entirely to shame.

But, Blaise _did_ know the pain of losing a parent. The kind of hurt that squeezed the heart and made it hard to breathe. His mother was somewhere far, rotting in a cell for crimes she was too proud to admit. There were times when she went weeks without writing or calling. And his father, well, he'd never met the bastard. He'd never even learned his name.

"But he'll do it, yeah?" The question was gentle, Blaise finding himself truly apprehensive of the answer. He didn't know how to express the fact that they needed him without giving the asshole credit.

"I think so." The other man's tone was firm enough for Blaise, who just wanted to get off the awkward topic. "By the way, you're flying out with Parkinson, right?" Theo asked. "Because I'm running out to get Granger from LaGuardia on Friday afternoon and I really don't feel like making a second trip."

"Yeah, she's actually flying in tonight. We'll be there on Thursday evening." And it went on like that for another few minutes, last minute confirmations and organizations, before they parted ways, citing personal reasons and making any attempt to hide their anxieties over the mission that was slowly starting to cement into reality.

* * *

Later that night, Blaise's life fucked itself over before he'd even had a chance to stick a knife in Dumbledore's back.

* * *

_**Chapter 1 is done! Let me know what you think in the reviews! **_


	3. In the Beginning

Hermione Granger had known from the start that the death of Marlene McKinnon was a curious one. Marlene was a suburban woman, the type that lived in a brown-shingled house on the edge of a cul-de-sac that boasted a crooked little white mailbox. She had the look about her too. The short auburn hair and wide doe eyes, every part of her physical appearance proving her status as a realtor and mother to three generic children, all of whom were going mediocre places in life.

Hermione stared at the numerous binders and files stamped in the gaudy red ink, reading "_M. McKinnon_". Her eyes were burning and she hadn't moved from her desk in hours, only just realizing that she had skipped lunch _and _dinner entirely. The three coffee cups strewn on her desk were long past empty; she was running on nothing but sheer stubbornness now.

There was not a single shred of evidence that pointed to her client's guilt. Sirius Black, husband to Marlene, was a simple man. His record was effortlessly spotless and every tie to the case could be disproved in one way or another. There wasn't so much as a traffic ticket to his name. It didn't matter that the man had a skin-tight alibi. When the police weren't skilled enough to look past the immediate ring of family members, _this_ was what she was handed. To some extent, it annoyed her. Hermione had been a staple to Borgin & Burke's firm for the past three years and she, with her extensive list of credentials, had yet to be assigned to anything more than a basic kill and run murder.

_**I will give you everything you want and more.**_

A chill ran down her spine and she fought to shake the voice from her mind. She couldn't think of that right now. Hermione had reports to type, witnesses to interview, a man to prove _innocent_. Tom Riddle's voice had no business infiltrating her thoughts. Not now.

_**Miss Granger, I know what you want.**_ She shuddered again. _**And I have reason to believe I can give it to you**_**. **

Hermione gripped the armrests of her chair and forced herself to look back to the files. The papers stated that Marlene was found in a water tank twenty miles from her house, clad in nothing but new white tennis shoes. Gazing at the autopsy reports, she reread the facts she had already reviewed dozens of times; Marlene's body surface was nearly immaculate save for a sprinkling of purpling abrasions and scattered, shallow lacerations, each no more than a blade of grass in length and width. Most noticeably were the large plum-colored handprints that wrapped around her jugular. The impact of strangulation, that much was obvious.

_**Imagine avenging your friend's...untimely...death.**_ She squeezed her eyes closed tighter, static shooting to the edges of her eyelids.

The fact that Marlene was found face down, floating in the Mulberry Pointe's water tank, threw off the technical details of the investigation. Water was decidedly a fickle little thing, making it difficult to measure algor mortis, especially after her small body had adjusted to the ambient temperature of the pool. When Marlene's body was unable to fall at the typical rate of 1.4 degrees Fahrenheit following the first twelve hours after her death, and then the .7 degree decrease in the subsequent hours, it made it tricky to pin down vital factors such as _when_ she'd died. And of course, when the forensic investigators couldn't measure the post-mortem body temperature with accurate precision, it complicated the process of determining rigor mortis.

_**Pardon my inexcusable rudeness, Miss Granger, but what was his name again?**_ The smooth tone filtered through her ears and made her brain tremble. She forced herself to focus on the facts.

Despite the complexity, the regular internal temperature of Marlene McKinnon was down from 98.6 degrees to a cool 63.6 degrees—or was it 68.6? The messy penmanship of the forensic pathologist, Dr. Pomfrey, was smeared in some places on the stark white pages, making certain numbers and words nearly indistinguishable. Often, Hermione had to flip back and forth between the original handwritten copy and the typed transcripts of the documents. It wasn't a big deal, she knew that, but it was another flaw in the process that eroded her patience.

With the combination of the tank's warmer water and Marlene's small stature, she was not surprised by the findings that reported she had _most likely_ been dead for more than 36 hours. Somewhere in between her last breath and her discovery, Marlene's body was able to grow stiff, starting from the head and making it's way downward, before relaxing in reverse. When Prairie Lake's police force had located her body following an anonymous tip, it was said that Marlene McKinnon was found to be completely lax, as though she had been dead for only a mere hour. Or several days.

_**Ronald Weasley, is that correct?**_

She nearly growled, using her elbows to push herself away from her desk. It was probably just the hunger speaking, she desperately needed to eat something, anything. Above that, she needed to get this voice out of her head. Hermione had accepted the mission, what more could she do? Her flight into New York wasn't until Friday morning. Between work and the ever-pressing knowledge of what she was now apart of, it felt as though the world was caving in upon her. For God's sake! She couldn't even focus on her _job_. Her last-minute, emotionally-charged decision was now affecting her daily life. What was she to do? The only thing Hermione was sure of was her choice to accept Tom Riddle's offer. As reckless as it was, she didn't think there was anything she was more confident in.

She paused her thoughts, spinning around her office in search of her purse and the granola bar that was shoved at the bottom of it; anything to tide her over until she had time to run out and grab a proper meal. At the feet of the crooked coat rack sat her purse, where the black leather straps flopped miserably in both directions. Inside the worn leather, the small golden wrapper gleamed like a beacon.

After she'd eaten and gained back a portion of her humanity, Hermione sat back at her desk, pushing away the stacks of files to clear a space, laying her head in her hands. It was five months later and she still couldn't believe that Ron was dead. _Her Ron_. Just the mental notion of it made her heart clench painfully. She was lost without him, completely and totally. There wasn't even a single person to _blame_ his death on. That became the hardest part. There was no target, no outlet for her to channel the rage and grief into.

Hermione couldn't blame Albus Dumbledore, not for the specifics of the murder—_accident_—at least. But she knew the entire mess could have been avoided had Albus not cut the funding of welfare so dramatically and suddenly in favor of another international invasion. The day the President had placed eastern oil interests over the financial security of his own people was the day Hermione lost the last inkling of her faith in the scruples of the Oval Office.

The Weasley family had depended on the monthly check, unable to afford the costs of their debts and remaining children on a single worker's salary. Even with the monthly allowance Ginny sent home, it just wasn't enough. Between grandchildren, college funds, and Molly's medical bills, nothing ever seemed to stretch far enough.

Though, Ron had steady work in the beginning, when the two of them had just been starting things out. He had found the balance between his day job in the Texas Police Department and casual interest in acting. And Hermione had supported him and his passion, wholeheartedly. She had been earning enough to offset the instability, at first, too. But then Borgin & Burke's consistently refused to promote her and she could no longer afford rent, utilities, and Ron's growing dependence on various vices and coping mechanisms.

She had so desperately wanted them to work out. On every level, she felt as though she loved Ron Weasley. That was just how the world was designed, wasn't it? It was up and down, salt and pepper, Ron and Hermione. That was just how it was meant to be. Borgin and Burke's wasn't _supposed_ to keep her from the high-profile cases, Ron wasn't _supposed_ to give into the drinking, and the unidentified driver wasn't _supposed_ to hit him in a head-on collision, killing him immediately on impact. But these were the facts and she couldn't change them.

So no, she didn't regret her decision, consequences be damned. She was doing this for herself, knowing that Riddle's influence would get her where her life wasn't willing to take her. She was doing this for policy change, to usher in a young, humane, and sympathetic era in American politics. And most of all, she was doing this for Ron, to avenge the death of the man she loved.

_**I will give you everything you want and more. **_She knew all she could do was move forward and nobody but Tom Riddle was willing to do just that.

* * *

It was for some odd reason that Hermione quite liked the chaotic atmosphere of airports. LaGuardia was no exception and, if anything, the fact that it was even more densely populated brought her joy. It made her feel insignificant, a nearly invisible speck of light on the color spectrum. She liked the feeling of unrecognizable faces swirling by her, busybodies who dragged their luggage in every possible direction and didn't stop to look at her.

Glancing down, her watch told her it was going on two o'clock in the afternoon, the sun blazing high in the New York City sky. Her flight had landed a little over an hour ago and Theodore Nott wouldn't be there to greet her at terminal three for another five minutes. But wanting to be on time, she forced herself to turn away from the growing line at the pretzel kiosk and pulled herself towards the illuminated 'three' on the far wall. The area was surrounded by large windows that showcased the sweltering warmth of mid-July, the heat radiating off the blacktop in waves. There was something that glowed inside of her at the sight of planes lifting off the tar. It was reminiscent of her childhood and the way she would hold her father's hand until he stepped into security, traveling to distant cities for yet another boring dentistry conference.

She thought vaguely of her job, which she left behind to embark on this...mission. She'd been granted a month of paid time off, courtesy of a mass amount of unused sick days, but she was nearly sure the firm had tacked on an extra few days because they'd so desperately wanted the time away from her incessant push for _more_. Not that she cared too much. Of course, the McKinnon case would suffer in her absence, but Hermione was sure that her temporary replacement—Parvati Patil—would be nearly as good as her. In fact, she would probably be better, considering her head most likely sat straight on both shoulders at all times.

She hadn't recused herself fully from the case though, in case Parvati needed her assistance or input at any point, but she could already feel herself distancing herself from that part of her life. Mentally, she was severing the ties she had worked so desperately to tighten. The constant buzz that filled the atmosphere was also a reminder that she was leaving her sphere of the world behind _physically_ as well. Hermione had packed her life into a suitcase and a large carry-on and anything that didn't make the cut was left at her parent's house or shoved into storage.

It was with a bitter sensation that she began to fully comprehend the fact that she truly did leave her quaint riverside complex, a steady living, and established roots in exchange for gallivanting around the country with a band of lawless criminals working to assassinate the president. _Oh,_ _how her life had become a joke._

Speaking of menaces, she immediately spotted Theodore Nott on the opposite side of the terminal, looking utterly dissatisfied with life. If she didn't recognize him for his slightly askew posture and solid black clothing, it was definitely the large poster hanging around his neck that read in block letters, "GRNAGER". Intentionally misspelled or not, Hermione wanted to crawl into the nearest flight gate and cease to exist.

Noticing the presumably mortified expression that was plastered to her face, Theodore waved her over dramatically, hanging up his cell phone in the process. She darted her vision downwards, cupping her hand to cover her face. This had to be some sort of sick prank. One that Draco Malfoy planned, perhaps. There was no other explanation for the pure embarrassment she was feeling, absolutely none. When she finally reached him, she whispered between clenched teeth, "Put that sign down, Theodore!"

"Well. _Hello_, Hermione Granger. It's been a while but I sure haven't missed you." He extended his hand for her luggage and she hesitantly placed the carry-on duffle in his hands. She could feel her eyes going dry from the intensity of the glare she was giving him. "And," he added pointedly, "It's Theo." His tone was clipped insinuating that he was nothing more, nothing less than _Theo_.

"No need for pleasantries, I assu-" He continued before breaking off, pointing to her feet. For a split second, Hermione's heart dropped and her mind raced with many possibilities, from having a spider crawling up her leg to toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"What? What is it?" She looked down and all around, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary; her pant legs were even and each shoe was on the right foot, what was he so worked up about?

"Are those fucking _crocs_, Granger?" She wrinkled her brow, at least he knew how to _pronounce_ her name. "They're clogs, actually. My mother bought them for me-".

Theo groaned. "Oh, Draco is gonna have a fucking field day with you."

"Oh please," she retorted, "As if I'd listen to anything that little ferret has to say." Theo raised his eyebrows at her but kept his mouth shut. Hermione immediately decided that she preferred him that way. After wearing heels six days a week, she wasn't about to let a single soul stop her from wearing something marginally comfortable.

The pressure of the heat was instant as she stepped out of the sliding doors. The air was lacking humidity, leaving only that dry heat that rarely reached the northeastern sector of the country. She already regretted the leggings and sleeved shirt she was wearing, but the only items she had packed were outfits fit for the White House. It _was_ where she would be spending the next few weeks, right?

Theo abruptly pulled her luggage across the street and into the throes of the parking lot, dodging the various taxis and buses that intersected his path. Had he not made a beeline for the large black Porsche that sat in the front row, just the thought of finding his car amongst the masses would have been enough to give her a headache.

She eyed the vehicle and it's gleaming glossy surface. "Subtle."

He wrinkled his nose, throwing her suitcase into the trunk and slamming it down roughly. "Not really my specialty."

The interior of the car itself was nice enough if a tad bit ostentatious. Its black leather was sleek, without a scratch on the surface; flawless. And the dashboard contained a larger number of gadgets and buttons than her banged up 2011 Honda Accord had miles driven.

The vehicle seemed to purr under her as Theo keyed it into action, its growl low and smooth. She could almost picture herself owning something like this. A car that shone like a jewel in the congested inner circuits of Baltimore, one that would have the men at work who looked down upon her absolutely drooling. Hermione could have this and _so_ much more if this mission succeeded. In the long run, material wealth was trivial, she knew that. But this was America, the living, breathing personification of consumerism. Abstaining from the finer things in life was the equivalent of showing up to a gunfight with a knife.

"All right there, Granger? You look a little...out of it." Theo pierced right through her plans of the future. Reaching over her to shove the glove box closed after inserting a few documents into it, he waved his hand in front of her face wildly. God, it was barely five minutes into their time spent together and he was already beginning to send her over the edge. How she was supposed to spend the coming months in isolation with Theo Nott as company was completely lost on her. It's not like the rest of the recruits were going to be any easier to deal with.

"Just rethinking every single decision that led to this moment." Her smile was saccharine, tight-lipped.

"Fantastic." He replied, roughly yanking in the gear shift into reverse and launching them out of the narrow parking space. Hermione launched forward, bracing her hand on the dashboard and muttering every obscenity in the book.

"Oh my God, Theo. You _can _drive, right?" She half-hated the slight panic that laced her tone but chose to ignore it. They were going to be navigating the most crowded city in the country and she was not about to blindly trust him to get the job done.

"Sure can, just got my license from the school of Kiss My Ass." The car veered around corners, dodged traffic cones, and to her absolute horror, careened around at least three people.

In the ensuing fifteen minute drive, Hermione underwent a series of bad puns, half-hearted insults, and several near-collision lane changes. And by the time Theo pulled into Malfoy's complex lot, her heart was beating out of chest erratically and her knuckles were pale with the strength she used to grip the safety handle. The Porsche barely had enough time to slide to stop before she ejected herself, coming face-to-face with the ornate revolving doors of the entrance.

She immediately felt out of her league. The tall ivory building scaled with hundreds of small glass windows that were probably framed in gold and the surrounding lot held more luxury cars than she could count. The realization that Malfoy hadn't changed in the years since she'd seen him last was only semi-comforting, her imagination creating numerous explanations on how he could have only gotten worse.

* * *

Daphne did her best to wring the last droplets of water from the soaking pile of hair atop her head before wrapping it in the closest towel she could reach. The muffled voices of the group that sat just outside the bathroom door were growing more heated by the minute, five different pitches overlapping one another at varying volumes.

She had snuck away to shower before Hermione had arrived. Daphne had fully expected the commotion the other girl's arrival would bring, the tensions it would heighten, the wounds it would pour salt into. Being the most _welcoming_ member of their little gang, she knew that she should have been the one to greet her and offer to take her bags. But watching Hermione walk from the lot into the building and hearing Draco's angry paces, she quickly decided there was nothing on Earth that she wanted to do _less_.

So she made the excuse to shower, to freshen up before the guest of honor arrived. Because, the thing was, Daphne wasn't good with people. They weren't her thing, her language. Computers, machinery, code, _that _she understood. Code was numbers, logic, and set of steps. It was infallible and dependable. It was void and emotionless. At the end of the day, when people broke down or failed her, code was still there, unchanged.

It's why she laughed a bit every time she remembered the mission she had practically signed her life away to. It was so undeniably grotesque, in the grand scheme of things, she supposed. To put all of this effort into a killing a man that she was nearly sure they had a marginal chance of ever even coming into contact with. But at the end of the day, it was so _human_. The monetary greed, lust for power, or some random noble passion that drove each of them into running such lengths for a task that was sure to backfire.

If she was being perfectly honest, she wasn't exactly sure why she even chose to partake in Riddle's game. Of course, she'd get to hack a few systems and breach a handful of firewalls, but even that wouldn't have been enough to convince her to make any sort of monumental decision. The real reason she'd accepted was Theo. He was so hauntingly reckless sometimes it pained her. Daphne would have to look out for him, to make sure he didn't accidentally blow up the West Wing or several of his own appendages.

The mission itself, the reward as well, were mere side components. Her main priority and concern would always be Theo Nott, her best friend. God, she _loved_ him.

Not like that, of course. No, they were simply platonic and nothing more. Daphne knew that fact fully and if she was being entirely honest, she treasured it immensely. She knew that Theo felt the same way, so there was no reason to worry or get fussed up over anything. If anything, she assumed that Theo thought of her as nothing more than the annoying sister attached to his hip. Right? Right. _Of course_, she told herself, blinking the thoughts away, forgetting why she had even been considering that topic.

"How is it that you just got here," She recognized Draco's thoroughly irritated voice, "and you have proved yourself fucking impossible to work with, Granger. You know, I think we're all safe to assume it may be actually some sort of record." She watched her reflection roll its eyes dramatically. Draco was using _that_ voice again. Yes, that one. The one he reserved for rude people, police officers, and anybody else who got in the way of how he lived his life. It was the voice he reserved for people like Hermione Granger.

"Oh, that's rich coming from you, Malfoy. Was it not _my work_ that was so highly requested by that boss of yours?" Hermione bit back. Daphne couldn't see, but she could picture the girl's nose poised high in the air. Had she always sounded so snobbish? Theo would point to 'yes'.

"My boss? My _boss_? Who do you think you are just waltzing in here like that? You forget that _I_ am the leader of-" Daphne cut off the rest of his tirade as she exited the bathroom, clad in nothing but pink silk pajamas and the towel that was beginning to lean towards one side of her head. Their positions weren't exactly as Daphne had imagined them, but she was close enough. Draco stood near the mantle, one fist on his hip and a cigarette clenched in the other, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up past his shoulders. Hermione, whom she hadn't seen in person since graduation nearly six years previously, was standing on the opposite side of the room, nearest the door, her arms crossed and her lips puckered. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy were scattered everywhere in between, their eyes gleaming as they watched the spectacle before them. Daphne thought they nearly resembled children in a candy store.

The room around them was nearly empty save for the sparse pieces of furniture. The rest of Draco's decor thrown away or packed on its way to storage. Starting tomorrow, Daphne remembered with a sudden pang, they would be living out of nothing but motels and the like. They would be fugitives from that moment forward. Down to the very second that the mission was set into action, they would be considered criminals, treasonous, _enemies of the state_. All while having to seamlessly blend in with the stream of ordinary humanity.

They would have to be untraceable so that it was as if the real identities that lay within their bodies never existed. She would never be able to return to the flat she and Theo owned, never able to walk so publicly, so freely. It was a price she was willing to pay, to rid the country of the leader that was too quickly becoming abusive with his power, but what was the true cost? Returning to America was nearly impossible. She would be more than lucky to walk away from this ordeal with her life, where she spent it—whatever remained of it—now, that was the question. If they were caught, _oh god_, she would have no choice but to crack a cyanide pill between her teeth and hope for the best. Because there would be no escaping the fate they would be sentenced to if this all went to hell.

"I think I'm exactly who I say I am, Malfoy. It's _my _skills your mission requires right now so you're in no position to judge."

"You two sound like school children." Daphne exclaimed plainly, choosing the couch cushion nearest Theo. "What is it this time?" She sighed softly, draping her legs over Theo's. "Did Hermione borrow your pencil and forget to give it back? Or did Draco pull a little too hard on one of those pig-tails of yours? Or-"

"I think-" Blaise sat up, extending a hand in her general direction, "what she means to say, is that it's barely been ten minutes and you two are already at each other's throats. Don't you think we can divert our energy to something a bit more useful? Say, planning?" His tone was smooth, mollifying.

"Absolutely not." Draco protested. "I cannot work with someone _this_ unbearable. I drew the line at Pansy."

The raven-haired girl rolled her eyes, "Oh grow up, you little bitch."

"Alright, everybody. Shut up!" Theo yelled, feigning a yawn and extending his arms dramatically. Once the room seemed to finally quiet down, the dark-haired boy brightened immensely. "Now, how do we kill this motherfucker?"


	4. Plotting

At least Pansy could always count on Theo to announce the elephant in the room. Announce it, shove it, kill it, the differences were all small technicalities.

As brash as Theo was, she was growing tired of the fruitless bickering and tension that soaked in the air, so she figured she had to dig up some sort of gratefulness towards him.

The elephant itself was actually no more than a small housepet to Pansy. It was all she'd been thinking about since she'd signed on board two weeks prior. Serpensortia, as Tom had so ceremoniously dubbed it, had already fashioned itself into her life's work.

Even if she detested politics and anything vaguely involved in its realm, she loathed Albus Dumbledore more.

Her reasons didn't even personally concern her, in fact. She was wealthy, privileged even, and she knew that no matter what, her family could buy their way out of any substantial trouble that Dumbledore stirred up. Yet, the fact still stood that he was an unfortunate excuse of a human being. In her irrelevant opinion, it made it worse that he shrouded himself so completely in an aura of moral superiority, the carrier of all democracy if you will.

And, at the root of it all, he was a corrupt politician. Pansy knew that mostly due to her father's involvement as a House representative (Arizona, 7th district).

Well, that and her former status as a CIA agent. Which she, regrettably, had to disengage herself from after accepting Riddle's request.

Albus had campaigned himself as a man for the common-folk, promising to cut taxes for all, keep business within national borders, the whole nine yards. But what he explicitly left out of his campaign and what the news conveniently left out of their reports, was the fact that he was slyly expanding his power past the constitutional boundaries. An executive order here, a veto there, support for an unrestricted state law over there. It was quickly becoming too much for various sectors of the country to handle.

Though, those factions weren't large enough to boast anything _too_ vocal. Hence where Serpensortia came into the picture. And Pansy's subsequent involvement.

So she was assigned to murder the President. Big deal. The man was pushing eighty. Just kicking his cane from beneath him would be enough to send him stumbling down the steps of the Capitol Building. Too vulgar? Probably.

It was enough to bring her back to the topic at hand.

"Do you really have to word it like that, Theo?" Hermione asked uncomfortably, quirking her eyebrow slightly.

"How else do you want to word it, then? How do we _murder_ him? How do we end his time on Earth? I really don't think we have any room for sensitivity right now." Theo's response was more poisonous than his body language, which bordered the term _lounging_.

"Well, no—" she replied unsteadily. Pansy was able to tell immediately that it was going to take weeks, no, _months_ to assimilate her into their group. Hermione was an outsider, completely foreign to them and their collective personality, which would be more than difficult for even the most familiar to swallow. "It's just that, we should maybe be giving this whole thing a bit more respect, don't you think?" If she was at all timid, she didn't show it. Which Pansy supposed she needed to applaud her for.

"Wrong room, sorry. Respect's down the hall."

"Theo. Stop. That's not what I meant—I just want this plan to work. I _need_ this plan to work."

"Join the club, you're truly un-special, Granger." Draco drawled, pouring himself another glass of Ogden's. Pansy chalked his nightly count up to three.

"God, Malfoy," Hermione placed her head in her hands, running her fingers through the curls that were still wild from the day's humidity. "Can you please just focus for a minute? We don't need this," She gestured wildly to the space between the two of them, "right now. Or, frankly, at all."

Was this really how the rest of her summer was destined to pan out? Caught in the middle of this meaningless quarrel between two stubborn bulls? Not if she had any say in it.

"Both of you stop talking. You want to know what this group really doesn't need?" Her own voice was thick with irritation, mostly over the fact that it had only been twenty minutes and they were already up to their knees in internal conflict.

"Pray tell, Pansy. Please, enlighten us." Draco seethed. He began to pace again.

"You." She stated, pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail at his rigid form. "And you," she continued, swiveling to meet Hermione. "Acting like this. Do you even hear yourselves? We have a goddamn tyrant to kill and you two can barely put aside your—whatever _this_ is—to hold a decent conversation." She sat up now, pushing one half of her hair behind one ear. "Either get your shit together or I will personally call Tom Riddle and request that he replaces the both of you with people more competent and equipped to deal with the adult world."

Both Hermione, who had turned, if possible, a darker shade of red, and Draco, who began to grind his teeth together, refused to meet her eye. Smiling tightly, she knew that she had made her point, estimating that the newfound momentum would last for about an hour.

"Well, damn, Parkinson. You have now been crowned the mouthpiece." Theo's face glowed with pride, if not a dash of fear.

She frowned slightly. "I can't be. My father's an Arizona representative, my people know who I am." Pansy scanned the room. Draco, Blaise, and herself were too recognizable to the general media. Draco as the son of the late, but beloved New York senator, Lucius Malfoy. Blaise as the womanizing son of world-renowned fashion designer Esmeralda Zabini. And of course, she, as the sole, socialite daughter of Richard Parkinson.

What the media didn't know, of course, was that she was trained professionally in fifty different ways to kill a man. It wasn't exactly something she could flaunt over mimosas and brunch, though. And she _had_ sworn an oath of secrecy. If that counted for anything.

Now that she considered it, she didn't think there was going to be much for her in this mission that wasn't behind the scenes.

"No, that's— that's not bad, Theo. I actually have a plan." Hermione straightened as if a new sense of life had been injected into her.

"I'm known to have my moments. Every now and then." He boasted as Draco simultaneously coughed into his glass something that sounded suspiciously like _of course you do_.

"I was thinking that, actually, because we need somebody on the inside of White House that I would apply as an intern for Albus. You know, bring him his coffee, brief him on the latest conference, etcetera."

Prompted by silence, she continued. "I know what you're all thinking. That they won't hire a lawyer as some low intern. But if they don't know I'm one, it can't hinder anything. In fact, Tom could even cover for me, couldn't he?" She rushed the last bit out as if her moment of allotted speaking would be crushed at any second.

"I was going to suggest changing our identities as it is, fake IDs, social security cards, all of that. But if Hermione is the only one we need on the inside, we can all pool our efforts into building a character for her." Daphne suggested.

"Eh, I don't know about that one," said Blaise. "Isn't it a bit risky to put all of the weight onto Granger's shoulders? That can't be our only hand."

"Well, of course it's not the _only_ idea. It was only one part of it, really." Hermione interjected.

Pansy thought about it for a moment. If Hermione was working directly with both Albus and Tom, that meant she wouldn't be the one responsible for taking any direct actions against the president, which was probably better for all of them.

"I like it." Pansy claimed slowly, piecing together her next thought. "Daphne, how close do you have to be to the scene to breach the system?"

"It depends on the technology I have. And how complicated the White House's encryptions are." She twisted the end of the towel with her fingers, considering something. "And being that it is the _White House_, I imagine that difficulty will play a role. But it also depends on the number of things I'll be responsible for." After she answered, she decided to just unwind the towel from her hair, letting the clumped, darkened strands land around her shoulders. "Am I just dealing with the cameras? Or the access codes too?"

"Daph, you'll have the best tech money can buy, I'll make sure of it." Blaise replied, looking pleased with her slow nod of understanding. Or gratitude—Pansy couldn't quite tell.

"Say the encryptions _are_ difficult, keeping in mind the circumstances. And that you'll be dealing with the cameras, codes, archived records, all of that. How close do you need to be then?" Pansy asked. She reminded herself constantly that she had to be cognizant of every single scenario.

Biting her lip, Daphne was hesitant to answer. "I'd say I would have to be no more than a block away. In case anything goes wrong. Meaning I'll be needing a guard at all times...and a quick getaway."

"Covered, I'll guard. Bombs count as a decent getaway, right?" Theo's inclination towards explosives was somewhat concerning but Pansy didn't really have the right to question it. After all, she may or may not have had at least three blades on her body at that current moment in time.

"Moving on," Hermione prompted. "So, I'll handle the office, Daphne has the security, Theo has her protected and several available methods of, erm, _distraction_?" At his nod of approval, she continued. "Where does that place you, Pansy? Blaise?"

"My job," Blaise declared, "is connections. Turn the people of Washington away from our dear President, rally support for Riddle's inevitable inauguration, and soften the blow should anything go wrong. I'll have you know that the American media is a particular friend of mine."

"I'm not sure that's something to brag about if we're being honest." Hermione said, drawing her legs to her chest. Pansy thought she looked wildly out of place in leggings and sweatshirt rather than the finely pressed suits she knew Hermione was accustomed to.

"You asked." He shrugged.

"And you, Pansy?" Daphne asked, now combing through her damp, knotted hair with her fingers.

"Well, there's a significant piece on the board you're all forgetting." Five blank stares were, admittedly, not a welcome audience. "Harry Potter. You know him?"

"S'that the kid whose father idolized Fudge?" Blaise asked, scrolling through something on his phone.

Pansy wrinkled her nose at the mention of the previous president. "James? Precisely."

"Fuck." Theo's voice cut the quiet contemplation that filled the room like a shard of glass through skin.

"What's his story?" Hermione pushed, interested and seemingly unaware of who it was they were complaining about.

"Real obnoxious kid, walked around campus like he owned the place because his father worked with Fudge. Kind of like Draco, actually." She waited a beat, but nothing came from the armchair at the other end of the room.

"Anyways, he's the newly-appointed head of the Secret Service now." She hadn't seen him in years, however, and the Secret Service had a knack for keeping their members and their appearances under wraps. Last she'd known, he was a wiry boy struggling to fill the the bulky shoulders he'd been given. His facial features, too, were a complete mystery. She'd never gotten close enough to distinguish the specifics. Fortunately.

Even in her days with the American Central Intelligence Agency (disregarding her relatively low-status), he hadn't been able to make a name for himself in the way that she would have crossed his path. Not yet, anyways.

"That _young_?" Daphne exclaimed, her wide hazel eyes bulging.

"Of course, the bastard was a total suck-up. But I wouldn't doubt James' influence on Dumbledore's nepotism." Sure, the head of the largest security enforcement branch in the country was only twenty-seven, but Pansy had to give him credit where it was due. He was certainly capable. Though she would never actually admit that out loud.

"Alright, what's his role in this?" Hermione's voice was prodding, poking her for more information.

"He doesn't leave Dumbledore's side, ever." Pansy deadpanned. How difficult was it going to be for them to connect the dots? Her job was simple.

"And you're going to do what?" Draco asked, speaking for the first time in a curiously long amount of time. "Sweep him off his feet so that he doesn't see Hermione swindling classified information out of Albus?"

"Oh God," Pansy grumbled, digging her heels into the chartreuse (an extremely ugly color, she noticed) cushions of the couch. "Don't think so low of me, will you? I'll be a distraction, at most."

"What that entails…" Daphne began unsteadily.

"We'll just have to find out." Pansy's smile was radiant. She could take down a man, that much she was sure of. If she could do nothing else, she _would_ be entirely responsible for knocking Harry Potter from his high horse. In the name of Serpensortia, obviously. "That and I know how to fire a gun while standing on a single stiletto and using only a mirror as a scope."

"Do I even want to ask?" Hermione asked timidly.

"CIA." informed Blaise, looking at Pansy with nothing short of pride.

"Ah, should've known."

"Well, I for one, absolutely love her idea. I'm actually a bit peeved I didn't think of it for myself first." Pansy would have thought it was a joke had the words not come from the mouth of Theodore Nott.

"What about you, Malfoy? Plan on just sitting idly by while we take down the government or-"

"Blaise, will you _please_ grow up. Given I'm one of Riddle's closest advisors, I thought it would be obvious as to my what duties were." He curled the glass in his hand to his forehead, either deep in contemplation or fighting off the next migraine. By that point in the night, Pansy had lost count of his drinks. She wasn't responsible for him or anything of the sort, and she would never vocalize her habit of tracking his drinking habits, but she couldn't help but feel the need to watch over him.

"I'll be keeping an eye on Granger, that's for sure," Draco added pointedly, gesturing vaguely to the girl who muffled her protests. "But I'll also need to know where Dumbledore is at all times. Which is something she can't do. Unless... tipping off the plot is something you all are interested in." It wasn't. And if not out of fear for her own life, it was the sheer terror at the prospect of how Riddle would react.

But he did have a solid point. They would need someone tracking Dumbledore's movements from a distant perspective. While Hermione would be receiving mostly personal information from the man, Draco would be at the political end of it all. He was, in a certain light, damage control.

"Doesn't your past—_uh_—record prevent your whole White House presence, though?" Hermione inquired. Ah, another thing Pansy hadn't yet considered. It was common knowledge that most of them in the room were well acquainted with run-ins with the law, it was standard. It wasn't as if Riddle was going to hire six inexperienced stand-up citizens for what could quite possibly become the crime of the century. Even if hers was refined to pettier matters such as speeding tickets or _minor_ tax fraud, she didn't call herself an assassin for an unfounded reason.

"That's the thing about money, Granger. It talks." Draco was certainly correct on that observation, Pansy thought.

"And you're proud of that?" Hermione quipped, tilting her nose upwards as if it were possible for her to become more uptight.

"You forget that not all of us had fully formed moral compasses by the age of seven." Theo tipped his head towards her, marginally defending Draco. Although, Pansy wasn't sure how true the words rang. For some odd reason, Theo never flaunted his wealth. Money wasn't something to throw around, or so he claimed.

"Besides," Draco continued, despite any interruptions, "Tom will just clear me and Albus can't do shit about it."

"And you're certain-"

"Albus was a _friend_ of my father's. Of course I'm fucking sure, Granger." With that, Draco pushed himself away from the armchair and ducked into his room, the door following swiftly in his wake. His glass, which was beginning to form a water ring on the oak flooring, sat half-full. And his cigarette burned untouched in the tray.

The new silence was thick, palpable. Draco had moods, which was to be expected, but the four of them knew his triggers. They knew exactly which buttons to press and which ones to avoid at _any and all costs_. His dead father, well, that was sitting like a king on the top of the list.

Now, it wasn't fair of her to necessarily blame Hermione Granger, it's not like she knew the slightest inkling of anything going on in his personal life, but it was difficult not to. Especially when she was so combative. So Pansy just glared at her. The other girl didn't even look mildly bothered (though Pansy had never been particularly gifted in reading people).

"Well, he's gonna be a _delight_ to room with." Theo laughed a bitter laugh, the kind that exposed to the room how difficult Serpensortia was really about to become.

* * *

The ever-present threat of the fact that Draco's apartment only had three bedrooms reinforced the fact that privacy would become a thing of the past. While the six of them would only be spending one night in his house before heading out early tomorrow, the situation did well to set them up for the future conditions they would be residing in.

When they were so blatantly placing their lives on the line, they couldn't afford the danger of living by themselves. No matter where they would rest their head for the night—motel, penthouse, an abandoned vehicle on the side of the highway—they would no longer be alone. The risk of spilled information could result in a throat slit in the middle of the night and that wasn't a gamble Draco was willing to take.

So the rooming was simple. Hermione would room with Daphne, Pansy with Blaise, and of course, Draco with Theo. Hermione was paired with Daphne for obvious reasons, but mostly for the fact that there was nobody else in the present group that was _willing_ to share such close quarters with the former. And Pansy and Blaise, given the fact that they had some unspoken bond that both amazed and petrified Draco, accepted these provisions easily.

At first, he'd wondered if he should have been worrying over the possibility of something romantic blooming between the two, but after he'd seen Blaise grumbling over some girl named Jenny—or was it _Ginny_?—he put his concerns to rest.

As far as his own situation, there was nobody else Draco wanted in his room except Theo. If he was being completely honest, he only trusted the other four for about as far as he could throw them and, admittedly, that in itself was a bit of a stretch.

And it wasn't even a matter of familiarity. He'd befriended Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne during his days at Yale, hadn't he? That had to count for something. The countless hours he'd spent browsing the courtyards and partaking in utter debauchery with them had to count for fucking _something_, didn't it? It turns out when you kill for a living, quality time meant nothing, absolutely nothing.

No, there was nobody except for Theo that Draco would so recklessly lay his life down to protect. The two of them were beyond the magnitude of friends, they were brothers. It was befriend and defend. It was a mutual agreement that any knife plunged into _your_ back was just as far into _mine_. And there was nothing that would come between that. Ever.

Draco shifted in his bed, rotating to face the ceiling. He lay atop the duvet, still dressed in the finely pressed slacks and shirt that were most likely disastrously wrinkled at this point. He didn't even have the motivation to take his shoes off, crossing his ankles so that they didn't scuff the pristine cover.

The blood in his head was beginning to cause waves, throbbing like a symphony in his veins. He almost regretted the bottle he'd downed—it was the third one this week. But then he remembered the sharp lines of Hermione Granger's frown and the shrill irritation of her voice and wished he could do it all over again. Draco was surprised to find the rage boiling in his blood at the thought of her, of her sheer _audacity_. To talk to him like that, or to just exist in general, really.

A minuscule iota in his brain reprimanded for such harshness, that it wasn't her fault that his life that had turned to such shit, but how his body seethed at the notion of her. She was just so goddamn _pure_, it was killing him.

She was a lamb coming in for slaughter, that's what she was. Hermione had no clue how deadly Serpensortia would become. It wasn't a petty political heist, it was an assassination. And she was about as prepared for it as he had been for the dramatic anticlimax that had become his daily reality.

He balled his fist around the sheets. _It wasn't her fault_, he reminded himself. _It wasn't her fault_. But she had looked so damn satisfied with the anger she was pulling from him. It was though she reveled in the tendrils of pure loathing that he directed towards her. This mission had to succeed. It had to. Yet, if they continued down the treacherous path they were taking, they wouldn't survive. And Draco wasn't going to throw his life away for someone as meaningless as Hermione Granger.

Before he had time to spin his thoughts to a different topic, Theo entered the room. He tiptoed past the threshold, carefully minding the fact that Draco very well could have been sleeping, even if he wasn't. The periodic tangerine light that spilled through the opening of the door was enough to highlight the worn copy of _The Tempest_, his favorite Shakespearean work, that sat tucked between his fingers. His movements were subtle and smooth, contrasting deeply with his tactless and utterly unrefined persona.

Though Draco was unsure of the exact time, he assumed that the others were long past asleep and Theo had just dedicated half of the night's hours pouring over the classic texts he'd read dozens of times each.

That was another quirk about Theo's mismatched personality. He was concrete in the sense that his humor was dry, he drank vodka straight, and excelled in piano by the age of nine. But flip the coin and there was also such an evasive aspect to him. Such as in the way that he haunted the hallways of the Nott estate like a nomad during the night, especially during his particularly oppressive bouts of insomnia. Or the way that he, in all of his inherent modernity, gripped onto the classics like a vise. Draco felt no remorse over the fact that he had yet to completely map out his best friend, skeptical as to if it was even a possible feat.

"Not sleeping, just so you know." Draco announced to the figure who was lowering himself on the makeshift cot on the opposite side of the room. His words felt like arrows in the dark, showering aimlessly in hopes that they'd meet their target.

His shadow shrugged. "Wasn't being quiet for you, dickhead. Daph's a light sleeper." _Lie_. Though Draco let it go.

"Fair enough." He tried to measure the severity of the slur in his voice, quickly deciding he didn't give a single fuck. So what if he was shitfaced? Unprofessional as it may be, it wasn't exactly brand new information.

Well, wording it that way sounded much more concerning than he knew the issue to be, so he waved it off as he kicked his shoes off and burrowed himself beneath the covers, forgetting about his wrinkled attire. He'd probably have to burn his entire closet tomorrow as it was.

"Listen, Draco, we need to talk."

He groaned, rolling his head into the pillow. "Sounds pressing."

A pregnant pause and then, "I just think that you should probably lay off Granger, at least for a little bit." From the small sliver of moonlight that escaped from the edge of the curtained windows, he could see that Theo was still sitting up.

"I—_what?_" He was sure he was hearing him wrong. Theo, who individually proposed the idea of the "GRNAGER" sign that Hermione had so openly loathed, was telling him to go easy on her?

"Just temporarily, at least. I mean, come on, man. She's a fish out of water here." Was he right? Completely. Was Draco going to admit that? _Absolutely_ fucking _not_.

"She knows that she signed up for." was the extent of his permitted response.

"No, she knows that she accepted Riddle's mission, for whatever horrific reason, not that she jumped headfirst into a bear trap. I'm not saying that you have to be _nice_ to her, God forbid. But I don't know, a little decency would be a start." At Draco's persistent silence, he carried on. "Tolerate her, that's all we need."

He rolled his eyes so far back he saw stars. Yes, he was definitely beginning to regret the Ogden's. "Toleration can't be one-sided, Nott." He knew he had it within him to rise above the situation, to be the bigger person, but she had to meet him in the middle. Even if their definitions of morality were dangerously skewed.

"Too true. But you'd be surprised by the effect empathy can have on the interactions between people."

"Sounds optimistic."

"You're right, ignore that."

Draco grinned slightly before his eyes drifted shut. It could have been mere seconds or hours until Theo spoke again.

"You understand this will all go to hell if we all don't learn to bite the bullet and trust each other, right?"

"Oh, I'm perfectly aware." It felt like the barrel of a gun was digging itself further into the side of his temple. The constant pressure was searing his skin, a breathing reminder that Serpensortia was now his entire life. It left an astringent sting on his tongue.

It tasted like blood.

* * *

_**Next, we dive into the brain of Theo Nott. And experience the first meeting of the elusive Tom Riddle. Make sure to review...it's what keeps me going! 333 **_


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